


Family, Duty, Honor

by DKNC



Series: Would That You Were Mine [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2859668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/pseuds/DKNC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this fourth installment of "Would That You Were Mine," Catelyn Stark is confined to her chambers after the difficult birth of her fourth child, awaiting her husband's return to Winterfell after he'd gone to be with his mistress for the birth of his bastard. When Brandon finally does return, he does not bring tidings she wishes to hear, and she fears that all of them--the man she is wed to, the man she loves, and all of their children--are doomed to punishment for her own sins.</p><p>This was requested by the lovely joely_jo in honor of her birthday, so I hope you like it, my dear! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family, Duty, Honor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joely_jo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joely_jo/gifts).



“Thank you Maester Luwin,” Catelyn said, reaching for the cup he offered her. 

Her hands were stronger today and did not tremble at all as she raised the cup to her lips. She took several long drinks before she lowered it to speak again. “Has there been any word from Barrow Hall?”

The maester frowned, and she knew the answer to her question before he spoke. Damn Brandon! She’d lain in this bed for a full seven days already—more than enough time for the raven proclaiming their son’s birth to have reached her lord husband and for a response to have come back to Winterfell.

“No, my lady,” the little man said gravely. “It is possible that Lord Stark left Barrowton before our raven arrived.”

“In which case, he should arrive at our gates momentarily.” Her voice was sharp, and she did not wish the maester to believe she was cross with him. Sighing, she closed her eyes. “Forgive me, Maester Luwin. I am simply tired of being confined to this bed.”

“I am well aware of that fact, Lady Stark,” he said in a gently chastising tone almost like she might use with one of her children. “But you remain too weak to leave it.”

She opened her eyes and frowned at him. “I feel stronger today.”

He smiled at her. “You are stronger today, my lady. Mayhap we shall have you up in a chair on the morrow for a bit.”

“And little Brandon?”

He shook his head at her, but he continued to smile. “I shall have one of your maids fetch him from the wetnurse. As long as a maid remains with you to help you hold him, you may keep him here all day and feed him yourself.”

At those words, she smiled truly for the first time since waking. She hated sharing the feeding of her son with the nurse, but the maester had insisted she needed to keep all of her strength for herself rather than lend it to her babe and had only allowed her to put little Brandon to her breast a few times each day to stimulate her milk flow.

 _He needn’t have worried about that,_ Catelyn thought wryly. In spite of her own weakened state, her breasts had filled quickly and felt quite heavy and uncomfortable on her chest now. She thought it likely that the fact she had only completely weaned Arya two moons prior had something to do with that.

“Oh, thank you,” she said. “I do want to keep my babe with me. I am strong enough, I promise.”

He held up a hand. “Through the day only, my lady. I would still have you sleep through the night.”

Catelyn bit her lip to keep from protesting. She knew better than to think the maester would relent on this point so she willed herself to be grateful for the increased time with Brandon she was offered. “And the other children?” she asked hopefully. 

They’d been limited to very brief visits with her as well, and that had been in some ways harder on her than the separation from her newborn son because she could see the hurt in their eyes every time they were made to leave her. Robb and Sansa had both verbally protested on more than one occasion, and Arya howled like a wild animal every time she was taken away. Even Jon, who was easily the calmest of the children, looked disappointed when the visits ended. They hadn’t even brought Jon with the others the first day, but Catelyn had insisted he visit her after that, and Ned had actually backed her up on that request. He’d infuriatingly sided with Maester Luwin in all other restrictions, effectively ending any chance she had of countermanding his orders.

Ned. He came to see her every day, usually when the children were there, but twice on his own. Even then, he made certain that Maester Luwin stayed the entire time he was within her chambers. She looked forward to his visits in some ways even more than her children’s which made her feel terribly guilty. But the simple fact was that she needed him. She was stronger with him near her. She believed with all her heart that she would have died, killing her son along with her if he had not come into that birthing chamber.

“My lady?” 

Catelyn looked up to see Luwin staring down at her, his brows slightly raised, and she realized he must have answered her question. Lost in thoughts of Ned, she hadn’t even heard him. “Forgive me once more, Maester Luwin,” she sighed. “I fear my mind is still foggy enough to wander at inopportune times.”

He looked at her carefully as she’d noted him doing on more than one occasion, and she carefully kept her face as blank as possible. She couldn’t remember precisely what she had said to Ned at Brandon’s birth, but she recalled quite clearly clinging to him for dear life—even after she and the babe were no longer in danger. Winterfell’s maester was certainly not a stupid man, and Catelyn found herself thanking the gods that Ned had been far from Winterfell at the time of Brandon’s conception. 

“I said that mayhap the children can come more than once a day to your room, my lady, but they mustn’t stay long enough to tire you. I fear they are even more exhausting than young Brandon for all that they do not require you to nurse them.” 

The maester lifted one corner of his mouth as he said the last, and Catelyn could not help smiling at him. “You are likely right. Although please do not speak of nursing in front of Arya, or I fear she’ll wish to take it up again!” In truth, Catelyn felt guilty about weaning her daughter when she had as Arya was not yet two, and both Robb and Sansa had taken the teat until their second namedays.

“I will tell Lord Eddard the children should be allowed a visit in the late afternoon as well as before their midday meal, my lady.”

“Thank you. Gods know he won’t let them in at all unless you assure him it won’t kill me.” 

She spoke in jest, but Maester Luwin’s expression was quite serious when he replied to her. “Lord Eddard will allow no harm to you, Lady Stark. You are his brother’s wife and the Lady of Winterfell. He knows well how important your welfare is.”

He’d managed to use all her titles in his little speech. Normally, he called her ‘Lady Catelyn’ or simply ‘my lady.’ He hadn’t chosen the more formal address at random. “Of course, he does,” she said almost coldly. “My goodbrother has ever been a friend to me for the sake of his devotion to Brandon. He is the Stark in Winterfell until my husband’s return, and I am immensely grateful to him. I certainly meant no disrespect to Lord Eddard by my little jest, Maester Luwin.”

“Of course not, my lady,” the man said with a very slight bow. “I did not think it for a moment. I only meant to comment upon Lord Eddard’s admirable adherence to duty. It’s been one of his most notable traits since I’ve known him.” He met her eyes directly once more.

 _You only meant to remind me to guard my words regarding Ned,_ she thought dismally. _And my heart._ As she looked at the maester’s kind but obviously concerned eyes, she felt certain he knew more than she wished. _Damn the man!_ He couldn’t possibly know what had passed between Ned and herself on that long ago day, but he knew she felt more for her goodbrother than she should. She wondered if the maids who’d been in attendance at Brandon's birth suspected as well—and if she and Ned were even now being gossiped about in the servants’ quarters. _Please gods! Let that not be the case. I beg of you._

A firm, but not terribly loud, rap sounded at her door, and Catelyn felt herself warm at the sound of it. _Gods be good. I recognize the sound of his knock._ “Come in,” she said clearly.

The door opened and Ned appeared. His eyes went to hers immediately, and Catelyn saw the way they first lightened to see her sitting up in the bed as well as she was and then darken slightly as he took in her face. Obviously, her concern showed—at least to him. She prayed that Maester Luwin could not as easily read the two of them as they could read each other. Ned’s face nearly always appeared impassive to most people, but Winterfell’s maester had known him for some time. As for her own face . . . she hoped Luwin wasn’t looking at her.

“Are you feeling well this morning, my lady?” Ned asked very courteously from where he had stopped just inside the door.

“I am, my lord.” That sounded wrong. She’d hardly ever called Ned ‘my lord.’ He preferred to be called by his name stating emphatically that he was not the Lord of Winterfell in spite of the fact that he was entitled to the honorific applied to his first name. “Maester Luwin says Brandon may stay with me,” she said brightly, wishing to dispel the awkwardness.

Ned’s face darkened which surprised her. “You are not even a fortnight from birthing a babe, my lady. A birthing which nearly cost you your life. Surely the good maester does not think . . .”

Catelyn felt her cheeks grow warm as she realized Ned’s misunderstanding. Rather than call attention to it for Luwin’s benefit, she quickly interrupted him. “Only during the days, Ned. He thinks me still too weakened to feed the babe through the nights.”

She watched the confusion flash briefly across his features to be followed immediately by understanding. He turned to Luwin. “You feel certain she is strong enough?”

“I do, Lord Eddard. Lady Stark has shown remarkable improvement in her stamina these past couple days. I did state that a maid must stay with her at all times to assist her with lifting and holding the babe.” If Luwin had recognized Ned’s rather ridiculous fear that he had given permission for Brandon to bed her upon his return to the castle, the man gave no sign of it.

“That sounds wise,” Ned said, nodding. “She isn’t to be out of bed yet, is she?”

“No. Although, I did promise her we might consider getting her up in a chair tomorrow. If she continues to gain strength.”

Ned frowned at the maester’s words, and Catelyn rolled her eyes. Her desire for both men to stop treating her like a complete invalid won out over her need to maintain proper decorum where Ned was concerned. “For the gods’ sake, Ned. I am not an infant. I am weakened, yes, but not fragile. I can sit in a bloody chair.”

He met her eyes and, after a moment, nodded. “If Maester Luwin feels you are up to it, I will allow it,” he said.

“And the children can come in more often,” Catelyn said quickly.

Ned looked back to Luwin who nodded.

“Yes, my lord. I told her the older children might visit twice daily. I would keep the visits brief still, however, as Lady Stark still needs more sleep than she would like to admit.”

“I’ll see to it they are not allowed to stay long,” Ned said firmly. When he turned back to Catelyn this time, his expression softened. “I do think seeing more of you would be good for the children . . . and for you,” he said softly.

“Would you like me to go and get young Brandon now?” Maester Luwin asked.

Ned looked almost panicked. “I can go to the nursery, Maester Luwin. You needn’t . . .”

“Nonsense, my lord. You’ve only just arrived and have not yet given Lady Stark any report of what goes on in the castle. You and I both know she won’t let you leave until you’ve told her everything that has occurred within Winterfell’s walls since you were here yesterday.”

“But . . .”

“I will be gone only a few moments,” he said, looking at Ned as intently as he’d looked at her earlier.

“Very well. If . . .if it is all right with you, my lady?”

“Please stay, Ned.” The words came from her lips easily and, she feared, too eagerly. She wanted nothing more than a few private moments with Ned. She hadn’t even gotten to thank him for seeing her through Brandon’s birth. She could never speak of what his presence had meant to her in front of Luwin.

He nodded and walked to a chair near the bed, actually scooting it back away a bit as he sat down. Maester Luwin bowed to both of them and left the room.

“Cat . . . we shouldn’t . . .” he began at the same time as she said, “I had to speak to you, Ned. At least once.”

He sighed. “I’ve missed you,” he admitted.

“I’ve missed you as well.” Prior to Brandon’s birth, they’d spent a great deal of time together, usually with the children or other people, but still it hadn’t carried the weight of the stilted conversations they’d had in this chamber under Maester Luwin’s watchful eye. “Maester Luwin suspects something, Ned,” she blurted out. “I know he does.”

He sighed more deeply. “He doesn’t suspect, Cat. He knows that we care for each other more than we should.”

She felt her heart beating harder within her chest, and she widened her eyes at him unable to speak. “You’ve spoken to him of it?” she managed to whisper finally.

He shook his head. “He came to me. You . . . you said some things when Bran was born. No one else heard you, Cat. Maester Luwin and I are both certain of that. He’s kept a fairly close watch on the two maids who were in the room. While they have spoken of how I held on to you, it is only to tell the story of their own heroic parts in Bran’s difficult birth—telling how you might have died were it not for all of us restraining you when Maester Luwin turned the babe.” He swallowed hard before speaking the word ‘died’ and she reached for him. Her hand didn’t quite reach him where he’d pushed back the chair, but he reached out his own to take it. “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I couldn’t lose you.”

She shook her head, unable to stop the tears from her eyes. “You will never lose me, Ned. You can never truly lose me any more than you can ever truly have me.”

They sat there holding hands across the space between and simply looking at each other for a moment. Finally, Ned pulled his hand away, and Catelyn felt as if a piece of herself had been withdrawn from her. 

“So he came to me,” Ned repeated. “The next day. He knew that I was aware of what he’d heard. He told me that he knows us both far too well to believe for one moment that we’d ever act dishonorably, and that he would say nothing of what he’d heard to Brandon because your simply caring for me is no betrayal of him.”

“What did you say?” she whispered.

“I told him you were not alone in how you felt.”

“Ned!”

“I would not have him believe it of you and not of me, Cat. I told him he needn’t concern himself because we both know who we are.”

“And?”

“He accepted that. He knows nothing other than what he saw in this room that day. He is only concerned that if anyone else sees it, they may be less inclined to trust in our honor.”

“They’d be right,” she said bitterly.

“Cat! You cannot say such things.”

“Even if they’re true?”

“One time,” he said, his voice thick with some emotion that might have been remorse or longing or possibly both. “We acted upon our feelings one time and have done nothing but try to put that behind us ever since. Do not chastise yourself.”

“Arya came of that one time, Ned.”

“You can never speak of that. Not even with me. Her life is more precious than anything you or I must suffer.”

She nodded. On this, they agreed completely. “So Maester Luwin has no reason to suspect . . .”

“None,” Ned said firmly. “And we shall give him none.”

She nodded again even as a tear spilled from her eye and down her cheek. “Thank you,” she breathed. “You saved Brandon and myself—the baby I mean. We both would have died without you. I know that. Thank you for not letting me go.”

“I cannot let you go, Cat. Would that I could. But I never will. Not completely. I am glad I was there for you and Bran, but I am sorry that I cannot let you go from my heart now. Gods forgive me for that.”

“I don’t want you to let me go from your heart,” she whispered. “Even though I know that I should.”

A loud knock came at the door then, and she jumped. Wiping at her face with her sleeve, she called out, “Come in!”

It was Maester Luwin, carrying little Brandon in his arms. Ned rose to meet him. 

“Let me see my nephew before he begins crying for his lady mother,” he said.

Maester Luwin gave the babe up willingly, and Catelyn observed that Ned held him much more easily and comfortably than the maester did. She remembered he’d held Sansa easily as well and felt a pang of regret that he’d never held Arya when she was newly born. She thought of his bastard (stubbornly refusing in this moment to acknowledge that Arya was no less his bastard) and wondered if he’d been there when Jon was born. Had he held Jon’s mother when she brought their child into the world? He’d said the mother was dead, but hadn’t said how long she lived after Jon’s birth. Had she watched him cradle their babe in his arms? Disgusted with herself, Catelyn looked away from Ned and Brandon. _What right have I to envy a dead woman? My sin is greater than hers ever was. She at least had no husband to betray._

“There, there, Bran. Your mother will feed you in a moment. Let me have a look at you.” He looked up at Catelyn and smiled. “He’s definitely got your look. He’s beautiful, Cat.”

He didn’t seem to notice that he’d called her by her name in front of Maester Luwin. She was more interested in the name he’d called her son. “Bran?” she asked. “You called him that a few moments ago as well.”

Ned’s smile grew wider. “It’s something my mother called Brandon when we were small. My father always insisted upon calling him by his full name, and as we grew, Brandon began objecting to being called anything else. Thought Bran made him sound like a child. I always liked it, though. And since we’ll have two Brandons about now . . .” He shrugged. “I thought I might use the smaller name for the smaller Brandon and avoid confusion.”

The smaller Brandon began squirming in his arms, and Ned bent to hand him to her. “I think he’s hungry, my lady. I shall leave you now.”

He always left if he was present when the babe was brought to her to feed, regardless of the fact that he had cradled the child against her breast himself the first time she’d ever fed him. Reluctantly, she nodded. 

“You will tell me if there are any ravens from Barrowton,” she said. “I want to hear right away when Brandon sends an answer.”

“You will hear when I hear, my lady,” Ned told her. Then he bowed and took his leave. Maester Luwin remained to be certain she could hold her son without assistance.

“Enid will come shortly, my lady,” he told her. “I will stay until she arrives.”

Catelyn nodded absently, laying the babe on her lap as she loosened her laces before putting him to her breast. She sighed with relief as he began to suckle and ran her hand fondly over the auburn fuzz on his head. “Bran,” she murmured. “I quite like that.” 

No raven ever arrived from Barrow Hall. When a full fortnight had passed, Catelyn asked Ned and Maester Luwin to send another bird informing the Lord of Winterfell of his son’s birth. The look that passed between them let her know that they had already done so. This wasn’t a matter of a lost letter then. Her husband simply had no interest in his new son—his trueborn son who bore his name. He chose to remain at Barrow Hall with the bastard of his dead mistress without acknowledging Bran’s birth with even so much as a letter. The thought of it filled her with both grief and rage. She had long since made a sort of peace with what her marriage was . . . and what it wasn’t. But her children would not be dismissed. She would not allow that.

She’d given no voice to her rage. She spoke little of Brandon at all, preferring to focus her energy on Bran and the other children as well as recovering her health. By twenty days after Bran’s birth, she was allowed to rise from her bed unaided and move about her chambers although she had to admit she was unable to do much more yet. Walking caused her more pain than she allowed to show on her face. Ned watched her far too closely, however, and she suspected he could tell. He had become stricter in enforcing limitations upon her than the maester. 

In any event, when Ned came to her room late on the afternoon of Bran’s twenty-fourth day, she had just handed the babe to Enid after feeding him and risen from her chair to walk to the window.

“Ned!” she said, pleased to see him. “Are the children not with you? I thought they might . . .” Her words faded away and the smile left her face as she took in his expression. His features might have been carved in granite—a sculpture of stern countenance giving nothing away. Yet, she could read his eyes well enough—dark as thunderclouds, those eyes spoke of terrible anger mingled with concern for her.

“Sit down, my lady,” he said softly. “Enid, if you could leave us for a few moments, please. I have tidings for Lady Stark.”

Catelyn felt cold. She and Ned had not been alone since their conversation about Maester Luwin, and Ned had never once in all the years she’d known him dismissed her servants from her presence.

“Shall I take the babe, milord?” Enid asked, and Catelyn had a sudden desire to grab Bran to her and hold him tightly. She wouldn’t risk taking him while standing, however. She didn’t trust her own footing yet, and looking at Ned’s face now made her feel even more unsteady than usual.

Ned stared at the infant in Enid’s arms as if he’d only just realized he was there and then looked briefly at Catelyn. “No,” he said. “Put Bran in his cradle here.”

His words were spoken almost harshly, and the maid quickly complied, settling Bran and briefly curtsying to both of them before almost running from the room.

“Ned . . .”

“Sit down, Cat,” he said almost as harshly as he’d spoken to the maid. He must have seen something in her face than because he looked briefly pained and spoke more softly and gently. “Please. I will bring Bran to you when we’ve spoken.”

He’d recognized her need to have her babe, she realized. She felt frightened. “What is it, Ned?” she whispered. “The children? Oh gods, has something happened . . .”

“No! Cat, no,” he said quickly, coming to put his hands on her arms where she stood rooted to the floor. “The children are fine. No one is injured, my love. It isn’t . . .” He swallowed hard and rearranged his features into the mask he had worn upon entering the room. “Come and sit, my lady,” he said formally, although Catelyn was well aware that the feel of his hands upon her affected him as much as it did her.

 _My love._ He did not allow himself such slips, and she knew he was inwardly berating himself for it as he guided her to her chair and assisted her into it. Her heart had lifted at the sound of it, however wrong that was. If Ned loved her, and her children were well, she could hear whatever it was he had to say. She looked up at him expectantly, and he did not mince words.

“Brandon is home.”

“What? Where is he? Why is he not . . .”

“Roger Ryswell is with him.”

“What? Why?”

Ned looked down for a moment, but he met her eyes again before he spoke. “Brandon brought the boy here, Cat. Barbrey’s babe.”

She hadn’t heard him correctly. She couldn’t have heard him correctly. Brandon would never dishonor her or her children so terribly. He’d spoken of fostering the bastard. Of seeing him given a place somewhere. Never had he mentioned Winterfell. Barbrey Ryswell’s bastard had no place in Winterfell. 

“No,” she whispered.

“Cat . . .”

“No,” she repeated more loudly. “Tell me he did not do this, Ned. Tell me he did not bring his bastard into my home.” Her voice sounded desperate and pleading to her own ears, and she hated that.

“Cat,” Ned said again, dropping to his knees in front of her chair and reaching for her hands. “Barbrey’s death . . . complicated things. Brandon couldn’t simply leave . . .”

“She had family!” Catelyn nearly shrieked. “You say her brother is here. Give him the brat and send him on his way!”

“It isn’t that simple, Cat. You have to understand what . . .”

“And where is my lord husband?” she continued, the outrage she felt on behalf of her son, Brandon’s trueborn son, threatening to overwhelm her. “He cannot be bothered with his wife and child so he sends you as his message boy?”

“I am not Brandon’s message boy!” Ned’s own anger flared then as he lost his struggle to maintain the calm reasoning tone of voice he’d been using. “I am here for you. Not for him.”

He wasn’t angry at her. He was furious with Brandon. She could see that plainly enough. What she saw for herself in the man who looked up at her from his knees was love and pain so powerful that he looked in danger of being consumed by them. And pity. Gods be good, she didn’t want Ned’s pity! So much she would take from him if she only could, but she never wanted that.

She closed her eyes a moment and realized her hands were trembling in his. She took several deep breaths and opened her eyes to look once again into the storm within his own. Pulling her hands free, she folded them into her lap and said, “Get up, Ned. Get a chair and sit beside me. Tell me all of it. I will not shout, and I will not cry. I promise you I am stronger than that.”

“You are stronger than you should be,” Ned whispered as he got to his feet. “Stronger than my brother or myself, and more than we could ever deserve.”

“Do not speak of yourself and Brandon as if you are the same,” she said simply.

He looked as if he wanted to reply, but whatever he saw in her face stopped him. He pulled a chair over and sat down across from her.

“When did he arrive?” she asked him.

“Just over an hour ago. He gave the babe to Old Nan and bid her find him a wetnurse. Then he ordered me to his solar. Ryswell came along to hear what he had to say to me.”

Catelyn raised her brows. “What business is it of Roger Ryswell’s what the Lord of Winterfell says to his brother?”

“Most of what he said concerned House Ryswell, and I suppose Roger wanted to be clear I heard it correctly,” Ned said darkly. “I need to tell you from the beginning.”

“Did Brandon even ask about his son? Does he intend to see him?” She tried to keep the hurt out of her voice, but it was obvious Ned heard it.

“He asked if you and Bran were well,” he said simply. She knew he wanted to tell her that he’d asked more of them for her sake, but Ned wouldn’t lie. Not to her. “I assume he will come to you when he feels he has Ryswell satisfied.”

“Satisfied . . .” she repeated, thinking that the word sounded ominous somehow. “Does he know you’ve come to me?”

“If he doesn’t, he’s an idiot,” Ned said firmly. Then he twisted his mouth into an expression of exasperation. “Well, he is an idiot, regardless. But he isn’t entirely stupid and he knows me well enough to be certain I would never let you hear of his return with the babe from a serving girl.”

“The babe,” she said. “Rickard. That is the bastard’s name, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” Ned said simply.

She sighed. “So what will _satisfy_ Roger Ryswell?” she asked pointedly. “Brandon’s obvious preference for the man’s _little brother’s_ namesake over the trueborn son with Brandon’s own name isn’t enough?”

Ned sighed but didn’t comment upon her sarcasm concerning the choice of the bastard’s name.

“It isn’t Roger insisting upon satisfaction so much as his father,” Ned said darkly. “Brandon arrived at Barrowton to discover Lord Rodrik Ryswell already in residence along with all three of his sons, even young Roose. He told Brandon that he wanted his daughter surrounded by family for the birth of her child and that he’d had no expectation that Brandon would actually leave his . . . lady wife . . . in order to attend to Barbrey as honor demanded.”

“You hesitated. The man didn’t call me Brandon’s _lady wife,_ did he?”

Ned pressed his lips tightly together. “Catelyn. It doesn’t matter. It . . .”

“It does matter. I need to know all of where I stand in this.”

Ned pressed his lips together. “It was merely an insult designed to provoke Brandon.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“He . . . southron broodmare. Those were his words.”

“And Brandon repeated them to you.”

“No. Roger Ryswell did. And Brandon rebuked him for it.”

“Go on.”

“As soon as the babe was born, Barbrey had both Brandon and her father called into her room. She was weak, but hadn’t started bleeding so heavily yet. She put the boy in Lord Rodrik’s arms and told him that however shamed he was by her, this grandson would make him proud. Rodrik looked at the boy and smiled. He held him up for Brandon and said. “The world should know this one’s yours all right, Lord Stark.”

Catelyn swallowed. “The boy has Brandon’s look?”

Ned nodded uncomfortably, and Catelyn caught his eyes move briefly to the auburn fuzz visible on Bran’s little head as he slept in the cradle.

“Brandon assured Lord Rodrick that he intended to acknowledge the child, and that he and Barbrey would be well looked after. Then . . . Barbrey started to bleed.” Ned shook his head and looked down. “It must have been terrible. Brandon and Lord Rodrik were both right there and . . . Brandon says the blood was everywhere and Barbrey was screaming that she didn’t want to die until she was too weak to speak at all and then . . . she was gone.”

He looked at her then with pain and fear and memory in his eyes, and she knew he was remembering Bran’s birth. “I am well, Ned,” she whispered. “Go on.” Ned remained silent a moment longer, and Catelyn found herself offering a prayer for the repose of Barbrey Ryswell’s soul. She even hoped that Brandon’s presence had brought her some comfort as she died although Ned’s tale did not speak at all of comfort.

“Brandon was shocked. Devastated,” Ned finally continued. “Lord Ryswell was still standing there holding the babe until a girl took it from him, and then someone was pounding on the door and yelling. Barbrey’s brothers. Her screams had drawn them there. When the door opened, Lord Ryswell looked at them and said, ‘Your sister is gone.’ Roger took one look at her and then flew at Brandon, drawing his sword and naming him murderer—saying he’d killed her.”

“How did Brandon respond?” Catelyn asked, recalling how Brandon had raged at his own sister’s kidnapping and subsequent death.

“He’s a better swordsman than Roger Ryswell—bigger and stronger, too. He wasn’t even armed, but he disarmed the man and pinned him against the wall in spite of that. He told him it was death to draw steel on your liege lord, but that he would spare him for Barbrey’s sake. That he could not fault a man for loving his sister.”

 _No. He would never fault a man for that,_ Catelyn thought. Whatever else she thought of her husband, he had loved Lyanna Stark dearly—he certainly cared more for his sister than he did for her and likely more than he ever did for Barbrey Ryswell, too.

“And the Ryswells thanked him for that?” she asked pointedly.

“Not exactly, but Lord Rodrik did forbid any further attacks on Brandon’s person. He had other ideas.”

“Like having his bastard grandchild raised at Winterfell?” Catelyn asked coldly.

“Well . . . yes. That was part of it.”

“Part of it? What haven’t you told me, Ned?”

His face darkened again. “It will never come to pass, Catelyn. I promise you that.”

“What . . .”

Before she could ask him, a knock sounded upon the door to her chambers which then flew open without waiting for a response. Her husband stood in the doorway with the dust of the road still upon him. He hadn’t shaved in some time, apparently, and his expression was as solemn as she’d ever seen it. It made him look disconcertingly more like Ned for a moment for Brandon’s face was always unbearded and grinning when she saw it in her mind. He even looked shorter than he normally did, and she realized that was because he stood with his shoulders slightly stooped and his head bowed as if he were exhausted. For a moment, she almost pitied him, but that moment passed.

“Welcome home, my lord,” she said coldly. “You have a new son. If you have interest in such news.”

A look of anger passed over his face mingled with pain, but he only said, “My lady,” and bowed rather formally to her. Then he looked at Ned where he sat. “I cannot say I am surprised to see you here, brother,” he said. Turning back to Catelyn, he said, “You know that I have brought Rickard home then?”

 _Rickard._ The name came easily from his lips. Not _my bastard_. Not _the boy._ Simply _Rickard._ As easily as he might have said Robb, Sansa, or Arya. He hadn’t said Bran’s name at all or even looked toward the cradle. Catelyn tried not to hate him for it. It would be a terrible sin to truly hate her husband, the father of her chidren. _All save one,_ her treacherous heart reminded her.

“I do. What have you done with him?” She tried to keep her voice flat, emotionless. She didn’t know if she succeeded.

“He’s in the nursery. There’s a woman there who’s been feeding the new babe while you recover, I take it. She has plenty of milk so I’ve given her Rickard to feed as well.”

“You what?” Catelyn wanted to fly from the chair and scratch at his eyes for even saying such a thing.

“She said it was no bother, Cat. That you’ll be doing all of Brandon’s feeds soon enough so it isn’t like I’ve ordered her to starve your child.” Brandon sounded defensive.

“My child? He’s your child, too, Brandon Stark, your trueborn son who bears your name just as you requested!”

Brandon had the decency to look slightly abashed. “I know, my lady. I read it in your letter.”

“Oh?” She raised her eyebrows. “You received my letter? Your reply must have been lost then for surely you would not have failed to acknowledge the birth of your son, my lord.”

He looked guilty. “I . . . I was already planning to ride home. And I needed to speak with you. I could not tell it in a letter.”

“Truly? ‘I am glad to hear of my son’ is too much to put into a letter? No matter. If you wish to speak, I shall speak plainly. My son will not share a nurse or anything else with your bastard. I will not have him here, Brandon. It is too much to ask. Whatever you promised Lord Ryswell, you must simply tell him . . .”

“Rickard will remain here.” It wasn’t a shout although Brandon had raised his voice. And the four words were unmistakably a command from the Lord of Winterfell. She’d heard him speak to his men and even the servants on occasion in such a manner, but never to her. Oh, he’d been angry and even shouted at her on occasion, and he certainly expected that she would abide by his wishes in all things. But he had never before spoken to her as if she had no voice at all, as if she were merely an underling whose opinions were not worthy to even be heard.

“Brandon . . .” she heard Ned say softly.

“My son Rickard remains at Winterfell,” Brandon repeated, turning again to Ned. “You know that he must, and you have no right to object as you gave your own bastard to my wife to be raised in my castle.”

For one terrifying moment, Catelyn thought he spoke of Arya, and she couldn’t breathe.

“Don’t bring Jon into this,” Ned said in a low voice, and Catelyn almost gulped at the air in relief. “You know it is a very different situation.” Ned’s voice sounded almost threatening, and she wasn’t certain why.

“Is it?” Brandon challenged. “My lady wife welcomed your bastard with open arms. He’s no more a Stark in name than Rickard is. Surely, one more bastard in the castle won’t be such a terrible thing.”

“Lord Eddard is not my husband,” Catelyn hissed. “He betrayed no wife when Jon was conceived and the boy has no other family. Your bastard is a stain on my honor and having him here is a slap in my face. You know this to be true, Brandon, whatever you are trying to tell yourself now.”

“I cannot raise Ned’s son and throw my own out in the cold, Cat! The Ryswells wouldn’t have it, for one thing!”

“Then give him to the Ryswells! Promise to find him a placement. Send him south to be knighted if they wish it when he’s older. Do whatever you can to atone for your . . . dalliance . . . with Barbrey Ryswell, but do not go so far as to ask me to raise her child alongside my own.”

“I ask nothing. I am telling you that Rickard remains here and that you will accept him. You will obey me in this, Cat.”

Fury made her reckless and heedless of her words then. “Oh, yes, my lord. I will obey you! Why not bring the little bastard here? He needn’t be left in the nursery, after all. I have two teats! Just bring him here and I can feed Bran with one and your little whore’s whelp with the other!”

“Don’t call her that! You will never use that word for Barbrey again. Do you hear me?”

Brandon had crossed the room and stood over as he shouted. Ned had risen to his feet as if he actually feared his brother might strike her. Catelyn, sitting in her chair, suddenly felt very small and very coldhearted. Barbrey Ryswell was dead. However much the woman had welcomed and encouraged Brandon’s attentions, he had wronged her by them. And only a wicked person would speak in such a vile manner of a dead woman.

“I hear you,” she whispered. “And I am sorry. That was cruel of me.”

His father’s shouts had wakened Bran who began crying loudly. It was Ned who went to get him as Catelyn was quite unable to stand and Brandon sank down into the seat Ned had vacated. Ned immediately handed the crying babe to her, not even offering him to Brandon and she took him gratefully.

The feel of her baby in her arms helped center her. The warm weight of him gave her purpose, and she willed herself to let go of some of her rage at Brandon. The two of them shouting at each other would accomplish nothing but to give the servants fodder for tales. “There, there, sweetling,” she shushed him. “You are all right. Mama’s got you.”

“Damn,” she heard Brandon mutter softly.

She looked up to see him staring at the back of Bran’s head as he rooted against the front of her dress. “My lord?” she questioned him.

“He’s got that red hair,” Brandon said simply.

Catelyn felt tears sting her eyes. Brandon had always claimed to find their children beautiful. He’d certainly not shown any preference toward Arya, but then she was a girl. Did a Stark-looking bastard truly devalue her children in his eyes?

“Damnation, Brandon!” Ned exclaimed. “How in hells do you say something like that to her?”

“What? It’s only that . . . well, you know what I mean, Ned!”

“I do,” he said clearly, and that shocked Catelyn more than Brandon’s obvious displeasure in Bran’s hair color. “But she doesn’t.”

Brandon sighed. “You didn’t tell her then.”

“No. Not all of it.”

Catelyn recognized the look on her husband’s face then. He hadn’t sent Ned to her, but at least a part of him had hoped Ned would tell her everything that needed telling to save himself from having to do it. Again, she struggled not to hate him. Ned had told her he’d rebuked Roger Ryswell for calling her a broodmare, but she wondered if he’d rebuked him as forcefully as he had her for calling Barbrey Ryswell a whore.

He looked back at Bran. “Does he need to feed or might I hold him?”

“He isn’t hungry, my lord. I fed him just a bit ago. He was only startled.”

“May I?” Brandon said, reaching for him.

Catelyn held her son out to his father. “He is your son, my lord” she said simply as Brandon took him. 

“He is my son,” Brandon said softly, looking down at the babe in his lap. “He has Robb’s face, doesn’t he?” he said with the hint of a smile. “I never got to see Robb so small. He was much bigger when you came to Winterfell.”

“Bran will grow as quickly, my lord. You will see. And yes, I think he looks very much like Robb.”

“Bran,” Brandon repeated. “My mother used to call me that.”

“Ned told me. Do you mind that I use it? I only thought that with the two of you . . .”

“I don’t mind. It suits him. But when he decides he’s too old for it, that’s it.”

Catelyn stole a glance at Ned and saw a small smile on his face now as he watched Brandon with Bran. 

“I, however, shall always call him Brandon. Brandon Stark.” Her husband's expression turned somewhat grim. “Lest anyone forget who he is.”

That comment made no sense to Catelyn, but before she could ask about it, Brandon turned to Ned. “I would like to speak with my wife, Ned.”

Ned looked to her, and she nodded. Brandon didn’t need her permission to send Ned away, of course, but she wanted Ned to know she was all right. And she was. She was not afraid of her husband. She did fear that he might frighten Bran again if this discussion did result in any more shouting. “Would you take Bran, please, Ned?” she asked him. “Brandon and I might converse more easily without the distraction.”

Brandon seemed actually loath to give his son up, and he lifted him into Ned’s waiting arms somewhat reluctantly. Then Ned seemed reluctant to leave, standing there with Bran, looking back and forth between Brandon and herself.

“I have to tell her, Ned. You know I do,” Brandon said softly.

“Aye. I know it. Just remember who she is, Brandon. She doesn’t deserve this.”

“She’s my wife, Ned. I’ve no wish to hurt her.”

Catelyn listened to this exchange with a growing sense of annoyance at being discussed as if she weren’t there and apprehension about whatever it was Brandon wanted to tell her. Ned didn’t want to leave her, and that frightened her as he was obsessively careful about not getting between Brandon and herself. She watched his eyes darken at Brandon’s comment about not wanting to hurt her and decided to intervene.

“Please, Ned. I want to speak to my husband alone.”

Both men turned to look at her then which limited any silent communication she could make to Ned. Brandon couldn’t read her face nearly as well as Ned did, despite eight years of marriage, but he knew her well enough. She didn’t want Ned to think she didn’t want him there because that was certainly not the case. But she needed to have this conversation with Brandon, and if it had to be with him alone, then she would have it so.

“I’ll bring the babe back when he is hungry.”

“You needn’t play nursemaid, Ned. You can take him to the nursery.”

“He’ll be with me.”

 _Rickard Snow is in the nursery,_ Catelyn thought. _Ned is telling me that he will abide by my wishes at least for now._ She thought of her other children and wondered if they were playing in the nursery. Had they discovered the bastard babe? And if so, what had they been told of him?

“He’s overly fond of you,” Brandon said when Ned had gone out, startling Catelyn out of her musings with those words. But when she looked at her husband, he looked amused rather than angry. “He thinks your some soft southron flower that needs protection. He doesn’t know you like I do, Cat. I have not always done right by you, I know. But I know how strong you are.”

Catelyn felt unable to respond to her husband’s comments as he was both right and wrong on so many points. “I am strong enough,” she said simply. “So tell me this terrible thing.”

“Rodrik Ryswell wants my Rickard legitimized,” he said baldly.

“What?” The blood drained from her head as if she had stood up too quickly in spite of the fact that she was still sitting.

“It isn’t going to happen,” he said quickly. “It isn’t.” 

She recalled Ned’s words just as Brandon interrupted them. _It will never come to pass, Catelyn. I promise you that._

“You told him it was out of the question, of course,” she said quickly.

“Well . . . no. I told him . . .”

“What? How dare you even entertain such a thing, Brandon Stark! You have four trueborn children!” _Three,_ whispered the voice in her mind that never left her. “A brand new trueborn son who is younger than your bastard! People might even . . .”

“Yes, people might!” Brandon interrupted. “People might say this or do that or believe this other thing!” He stood up and began walking restlessly about her room. “That’s the bloody problem with all of it!” He sighed and looked at her. “We have four children, Catelyn. Gods willing I’ll be able to put at least couple more in your belly before we’re too old.”

 _Broodmare._ The word came unbidden to Catelyn’s mind as she reflected bitterly upon her husband’s ability to go from speaking of legitimizing his bastard in one breath to bedding her and getting her with child once more in the next.

“I . . . gods, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said quickly and she realized her thoughts must show on her face. “It’s simply that our children are the only legitimate heirs to Winterfell, and with Lyanna dead, Benjen on the Wall, and Ned seemingly determined to live as a septon, there will be none other than our children.”

“And you think four is a paucity of trueborn heirs, my lord? Or that legitimizing a few bastards will provide you with spare heirs should our children be carried off by plague or something? Why stop with your bastards then? Let’s legitimize Jon while we’re at it. He’d be last in line, of course, being only Ned’s son, but still he’s at least of the Stark blood line.” She was furious, and she wanted him to know it.

“Damn it, Catelyn. That’s not what I mean at all. And leave Jon out of it.”

“That’s what Ned said to you, but you were quick enough to pull him into it when it suited you!”

“Jon is no one!” Brandon shouted, raising his voice more than he had since she’d called his dead lover a whore, and his words stunned her into silence. Brandon loved Jon. She knew he did. He wasn’t overly involved with him on a daily basis, but that was how he was his own children for the most part. 

“How can you say that?” she whispered finally. “Jon loves you.”

Brandon appeared to deflate before her eyes, and he slowly walked back over to sit in front of her again. “Gods help me. I’m worse than Ned. I can’t even tell it straight for fear of hurting you more than I already have, and it’s making me fuck it up all the worse. Of course, I know Jon loves me. I love him, too. He’s a good lad, and we’ll always do right by him. That’s not what I meant. It’s just . . . he has no one. No one who isn’t a Stark who would use him to threaten us, Cat. As long as he’s simply Ned’s bastard, he’s useless to anyone else.”

His choice of words sounded odd to Catelyn. _As long as he’s simply Ned’s bastard? What else would he be?_

“Rickard is another matter entirely. Lord Ryswell hates me, Catelyn. He hated me long before Barbrey died or even before I took her maidenhead all those years ago.”

Catelyn made a small sound of surprise at this confession.

“Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t know that,” Brandon said, waving a hand at her. “The story’s told often enough.”

“More often than enough,” she said dryly.

“Well, it’s true, of course,” Brandon sighed. “But Rodrik didn’t hate me for doing that. He’d encouraged it, you see. He hated my father for his southron ambitions. Our betrothal infuriated him because he’d thought to see his own grandson as Lord of Winterfell. He talked to anyone who’d listen of the weakness of southron blood and the faithlessness of Andals in general.”

Catelyn started to protest, but he held up his hand and kept speaking. “My father laughed at him. He said that Northmen follow strength and that House Stark had three strong sons all worthy of respect and honor. Fostering Ned in the Vale and wedding me to the strength of the Riverlands would only make us stronger. But a few men listened. Those unhappy with judgments my father had made or more ambitious than they should have been.”

“I know most of this, Brandon. What has it to do with . . .”

“Please, Cat. Let me tell it all.” When she nodded, he continued. “If the whole mess with Rhaegar Targaryen had never come to pass, it likely would have worked as my father planned it. But Lyanna was stolen under our noses and then Ned and I were stuck hiding in King’s Landing and Father was murdered by the mad king. For a very long time, the Stark in Winterfell was a boy. We had only Benjen here while Ned and I rode to war, taking good Northmen to die for the depravity of Southrons.”

“A good number of those so-called Southrons fought on your side, Brandon. Men of the Riverlands and the Stormlands and the Vale died for your sister as well.”

“Aye,” Brandon acknowledged. “But for better or worse, we Northmen are an insular lot, Cat. We have our own ways, our own gods, even our own ancestry that differs from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.  
War may call for alliances, but to many Northmen, the only truly trustworthy friend is another Northman.”

She could have pointed out the scattered Andal ancestors in the Stark family tree or even the fact that there was some blood of the First Men in her own ancestry, but she held her tongue, wanting Brandon to get to the point of this history lesson.

“When I wed you, I put an end to Lord Rodrik’s hopes. He knew I’d bedded Barbrey and he knew I liked her. With my father out of the way, he thought I could be persuaded to wed her. He was wrong. He might have had Ned for her then, but he saw a chance to make her the Lady of Barrow Hall. Not a Stark, but not wife to a second son. After Willam died, he wanted her wed to Ned, thinking that as Willam had no heirs, I might give Ned that seat, allowing Barbrey to keep her title.

“You never told me that.”

“It didn’t concern you. Ned wanted no part of it in any case. I thought the idea had merit but . . .”

“You were already fucking Barbrey Ryswell pretty regularly.”

Brandon nodded. “I’d started up with her again on our way back from war. When we took her Willam’s horse. Had Ned been willing . . . but I wasn’t going to force my brother to marry my mistress.”

He’d never called Barbrey his mistress before, and Catelyn thought rather sadly that this may well be the most honest conversation her husband had ever had with her.

“So Lord Rodrik hates me,” Brandon said again. “And he’s done an excellent job of raising his sons to do the same. They remain leal to House Stark and Winterfell because they know they cannot raise enough support to defeat me.”

“Then why do you hesitate to tell the man to take his little bastard grandson and be done with it? Why do you attempt to appease him?”

“He does not have enough support now, Cat. That does not mean he could not raise it at some point in the future.” He swallowed. “My actions with Barbrey have caused considerable grumbling among many bannermen, I am afraid. And Lord Rodrick has gone to considerable lengths to portray Barbrey as the wronged party here—more so than you.”

“What?”

He sighed. “You are an outsider, my lady, and to some of these men, you always will be. The people of Winterfell know you and would defend you to anyone. The lords who’ve spent considerable time in your company, especially those who saw firsthand how admirably you ruled the North during the Greyjoy Rebellion would stand by you as well. But the North is vast. And there are far too many men for whom you are merely a name, even after so many years as Lady of Winterfell.”

Catelyn shook her head, still uncertain where Brandon was going, but feeling a sense of dread that he was coming closer to whatever Ned had wanted to spare her from.

Brandon took a deep breath and paused for a moment, almost as if unsure how to continue, and Catelyn looked at her husband closely. He was thinner than normal, she realized, and he looked considerably older. It wasn’t merely the whiskers on his face. He had lines etched around his eyes deeper than any she had seen there before.

“It seems that some of my bannermen have done more than grumble about my . . . relationship . . . with Lady Barbrey. Her father showed me correspondence from several Northern houses whose lords rather blatantly questioned my honor and even my fitness to sit in my seat at Winterfell.”

“How dare they?” Catelyn gasped. She had her own misgivings about Brandon’s honor concerning his marriage vows, but her lord husband had never shirked his responsibilities to his bannermen. He put his position as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North above any woman—wife or lover.

He smiled sadly at her words. “That you, of all people would defend me in this, Cat.” He shook his head. “Obviously these men did not expect their letters to find my eyes and would likely be furious with Lord Ryswell for showing them to me. But that has been his plan all along, my lady. To stir up discontent and use it to his advantage.” Brandon sighed. “Had Barbrey lived, I could have called him on it. Had he made this attempt, I would have exposed his duplicitous nature to his so-called friends and worked to assuage their sense of outrage over my actions by giving Barbrey and our son as much standing as I possibly could—proving my intent to do right by them.”

Catelyn gritted her teeth at the emotion in his voice when he spoke of the woman. Given her feelings for Ned, she realized she had very little right to fault Brandon for his own feelings, but it still stung to hear the man whose name, title, and children she bore speak of giving honorable standing to another woman.

“I . . . I would have ended it, if I must,” he said then, and she sensed that his intent was genuine even if she had no faith in his ability to have followed through with it. “And Barbrey would have accepted it. As long as I cared for our son, she would wish no harm to me. She would have defied her father now as she never would have when we were young. I know it. She cared for me and would never see my son raised to despise me.”

Catelyn was uncertain whether he was trying to convince her or himself. He paused again and looked at her, but she had no words to offer him on this matter.

“But she died,” he said bitterly after a moment, sounding as angry with his lover for dying as he was pained by it. “And now I have that to answer for as well in the eyes of her father and brothers. Lord Rodrik insists that legitimizing Rickard is the only way to right the wrongs I’ve committed against his daughter and his house. Robb is older. Rickard is my second son, and would not inherit unless . . .”

“Unless something happened to Robb!” Catelyn snapped. “My gods, Brandon, agreeing to such a thing would be to pass a death sentence on our son! He would never be safe again. How can you . . ." 

“I cannot!” Brandon said loudly to interrupt her angry words. “And I told Lord Ryswell as much. I told him such a thing is not within my power and that King Robert would never risk insulting Lord Tully in such a manner—not after all your father did for him in the Rebellion, and again against the Greyjoys.”

“You told him you cannot,” Catelyn said coldly. “You did not tell him you didn’t wish it, did you? There is a difference, my lord!”

“Of course, I do not wish it, Cat! I have told you as much. Winterfell is for our children. No others. But if the thing cannot be done in any event, why anger Ryswell further? Why not let him believe I would consider it and then be grateful for whatever I can give the boy? That was my thought.”

“I do not like it.”

“Neither did Ryswell,” Brandon said bitterly. “He told me to take a good look at Rickard’s face—his Stark face—and then to ride home and see the face of the Tully boy I intended to give Winterfell to.”

Catelyn felt the icy cold creeping back through her veins. “What did he mean, my lord?”

Brandon looked down for a long time, but then met her eyes when he said, “Robb has no trace of me in his face, Cat. None of our children do, save Arya, and she is a girl. I had hoped Brandon . . .”

“Does it matter so much to you that your heir does not have your look?” she asked him.

“To me? No. Robb is my son. My firstborn son and he is as much a Stark as any who have borne the name before him. I know that, my lady. I do not doubt it, but . . .”

The room seemed to spin and sway before Catelyn’s eyes as the implications of his words sank in. “Are you saying that others question the legitimacy of my son?” she whispered. “Because if anyone has dared such a thing, and you left him alive to repeat it, you are no man and certainly no husband, Brandon Stark!”

“He did not go so far, Catelyn. I swear he did not or I would have killed him! He only made insinuations, spoke about the fortuitous conception that took place in such a brief time at Riverrun, the fact that neither your father nor I were at Riverrun to actually testify to the date of Robb’s birth, and spoke about the loose morality of Southrons in general, including the incestuous tendencies of the Targaryens.”

“Incestuous?” Catelyn cried, heat rising to her cheeks. She didn’t know whether she was more furious or horrified at the vile things Lord Ryswell had _insinuated_. “Did you tell the man my only brother was a child when our son was conceived, Brandon? Did you tell him anything in my defense?”

“You need no defense, Cat. You’ve never done anything wrong,” Brandon sighed. “I hit him hard enough to make him fall, drew my sword, and told him to hold his tongue if he wished to keep it. He said no more of such things.”

Catelyn’s mind spun as she wondered how many times Rodrik Ryswell had said such things and to whom. She felt sick. “And yet Roger Ryswell is here, calling me a broodmare in your solar. How is it that he comes to be here, my lord?”

“He’s here to speak to Ned.”

“Ned?”

Brandon nodded. “Lord Ryswell spoke not another word regarding you or our children, my lady, I swear it. But he did not relinquish his hope of seeing his grandson made a Stark. Knowing that Ned has Robert’s ear more than anyone else does, he sent Roger to ask Ned to take the matter to the king as I had told them Robert would not be moved by me.”

“What did Ned say to him?” Catelyn asked.

“Nothing that bears repeating to a lady,” Brandon said with a frown. “I fear Roger was greatly offended by my brother’s attitude. It took me the devil’s own time to get him to calm down once Ned stormed out of my solar.

_It will never come to pass, Catelyn. I promise you that._

“How disappointing for you that your brother is so difficult,” she said bitterly.

“No! Dammit, Cat! I already told you I don’t want the boy legitimized. I was counting on Ned to turn the request down flat, and he did. He could have been a damn sight more courteous about it. Softened his words or flattered the man in some way . . . but I suppose that’s too much to ask of Ned. The man is too honest by far to make any kind of politician.”

“What happens now?” Catelyn asked in a remarkably emotionless voice.

“Roger demanded that I give him Rickard. I cannot do that, of course, so I had to speak of the friendship between our houses—how he and his father and brothers will always be welcomed here in Rickard’s home and how Rickard will have everything my other children have except my name.”

 _Rickard’s home._ The words caused her to seethe. “Why? Why not just give him the boy and be done with it?”

“He’s my son, Cat,” Brandon said miserably. “I’ll not have him raised by men who hate me.”

“You should have thought about that before you fathered him on a woman whose men had cause to hate you,” she said coldly.

“Do you think I don’t know that? I am well aware of how I have brought us to this place,” Brandon thundered, “But if you have no pity in your heart for my feelings or the welfare of my boy, then think on our own children, Cat.”

“I am thinking of them. And I want the bastard gone from them.”

“No! You don’t!” After that shouted decree, they glared at each other for several moments before he said very quietly, “He looks just like me, Cat. If he continues to look so as he grows, every man he meets will know him as my son. Do you want this bastard raised to despise me and our children, to be told at every meal how Winterfell should be his, and lulled to sleep at night with grim fairytales of illegitimate children usurping his place?”

Catelyn trembled at his words. As terrible as they were, she knew they were true. Lord Ryswell and his sons would poison the boy against all of them. Her children would know no peace.

“It is safer for our children to raise him here, Cat,” Brandon said. “To carefully control the influence his mother’s family exerts on him, to allow him to know that he is loved and will have a place among his brothers and sisters, even if that place is not ever to be my seat at Winterfell. It is the only way.”

“And it is what you would want in any event,” she said in a dull voice. “It gives you a reason to keep your precious Barbrey’s child close by you. A reason you know I will accept.”

“I will not deny I want him here. I would not have had any of this come to pass, my lady. I swear it. I would not have had him be born at all. But now that he is born, he is mine, Catelyn, and I must protect him just as I must protect our children.”

“No,” she hissed. “You must protect him, but it must never be just as it is with our children. You say you fear what ambitions the Ryswells would give the boy from their hatred. I say we must also guard against giving him ambitions born of your love for him. He must never be raised to the level of our trueborn children, Brandon. Promise me that.”

Brandon bowed his head. “I promise that Rickard will know his place,” he said although he did not elaborate on what that place would be. He rose from the chair. “I must leave you now, my lady. I have been too long away from Winterfell and much needs attention.”

“Go attend to whatever matters strike you as important, my lord.”

She intended the words to hurt, and she could see that they did. “Nothing is more important than our children, Catelyn. I would have you believe that. I am pleased by our new son, and I regret that I’ve taken some of the joy in his birth away from you. But I am glad of him.”

She nodded. “That is good to hear at least.”

He bowed and turned to go. When he reached the door, she called his name and he turned to face her. 

“Brandon,” she said softly. “You are my husband and the father of our children. You are my liege lord as well. I will accept the boy’s presence here . . . “

“But?” he asked, hearing the hesitation in her words.

“I don’t know if will ever forgive you for bringing us to this place.”

He nodded once. “I suppose I deserve that,” he said. “But I shall still hope.”

How long she sat there unmoving after he left her, she could not say. Nor could she sort out what she truly felt. Certainly she was angry at Brandon for bringing this upon them and resentful of the bastard whose presence she had no choice but to accept. Yet, she could deny her own guilt. Was this her punishment from the gods for loving a man not her husband? For giving him a child and allowing the world to believe their daughter to be Brandon’s? From the moment Arya had quickened in her womb, she had feared that her precious child would somehow be caused to suffer in payment for her own sins, but now to have Robb threatened as well . . . and even Sansa and tiny Bran . . . this was not justice.

 _Family, Duty, Honor,_ she thought bitterly. _Brandon and I have made a mockery of all three._ “Punish me, gods,” she whispered. “Punish Brandon. But I beg of you, allow us to keep our children safe. Allow them to grow strong and happy, and to receive all that is their due by right.”

“You forgot to name me, Cat.”

His deep voice, filled with sadness and guilt caused her to look up. Only then did she realize that tears had been falling and continued to fall silently down her cheeks. She made no move to wipe them as she looked up into the face of the man she loved.

Ned stood inside the closed the door of her room, holding Bran in his arms. “I knocked, my lady, but you did not answer. I was . . . concerned for you . . . so I came in without your permission. Forgive me.”

“I would forgive you anything,” she said, her voice breaking as she spoke to see the love for her so clearly on his long face. “And I would no more see you punished than my children. Oh, Ned! What have Brandon and I done to you?”

“You have done nothing to me, Cat!” he insisted in a harsh whisper. “And none of Brandon’s follies are your doing!”

She only buried her face in her hands at that point and began sobbing in earnest. After a few moments, she felt strong arms come around her, pulling her to stand. Ned must have laid Bran in the cradle. He held her against him, allowing her to cry, and she held onto him as if he were the only safe haven she knew. 

“Bran . . .” she murmured after a moment, not moving her face from against his chest.

“He sleeps,” Ned said softly. “He will want you soon, I am afraid, but he sleeps for now, my love. Come and sit.”

He led her to the foot of her bed where he could sit beside and continue to hold her in his arms. She was surprised at his actions, but offered no resistance. His arms suddenly seemed to be the only strength she had, and she feared she would collapse without them around her.

“He said he told you all that had come to pass with the Ryswells,” Ned said after a moment.

She nodded against the cloth of his shirt, breathing in the scent of him, willing herself to accept the strength he offered for she must be strong for her children now. “You saw him?”

Ned mumbled an affirmative noise as he ran one hand over her head and down her hair in a soothing motion as she might do for one of her children when they wept. Knowing that nothing good could come of such intimate touches between them, she raised her head from his chest and moved slightly to put a small space between their bodies although he did not remove his hands from her, and she did not wish him to.

“Where is he?” she asked, looking at Ned’s face.

“In the nursery,” he said tersely. “With the children.”

“All of them?” she whispered.

Ned nodded. “All save Bran. He did not wish them to hear of Rickard from anyone else.”

 _My children are learning they have another brother,_ Catelyn thought bitterly. _Arya barely understands Bran’s existence and finds him of little interest. This boy will simply be another babe to her, also quickly ignored. Sansa will likely delight in another babe to play with and think little on how it came to be. Robb, however . . . he will have questions for his father. What answers will Brandon offer him?_

“Jon is with them?” she asked Ned who had allowed her to reflect silently upon this news without pressing her to speak.

“Aye.” He hesitated. “Cat . . . Jon knows that I was never wed to his mother. He and Robb both have asked questions about . . . things they have heard . . .”

“From Theon Greyjoy,” Catelyn said darkly. Brandon’s ward was far too worldly in her eyes for a boy of barely one and ten. Robb had been rather awestruck by the older boy when Brandon first brought him home after the Greyjoy Rebellion and had followed him around rather like a puppy. The young Kraken had ever been contemptuous of Jon, however, and that had bothered Robb. Since Ned’s return, Robb had transferred a bit of his hero worship to his uncle, begging Ned to regale all three boys with tales of his travels and adventures on the king’s behalf. While Ned always welcomed Theon to spend time with them, he did not allow the boy to be openly cruel or discourteous to his son. While neither Ned nor Catelyn were under the illusion that Theon did not continue to say whatever he pleased to both Robb and Jon when out of earshot of adults, Ned’s presence did counteract some of Theon’s worse influences on Robb for which she was grateful. 

“Well, Theon is not the only one, Cat,” Ned said fairly. “It is rare to find a man or boy between the ages of ten and seventy who does not like to talk of bedding women. And that oft leads to talk of the babes that come of it.”

She frowned. “Most of our men have the sense to be silent in the presence of my seven year old son . . . or yours.”

“Not when they’re in their cups, my lady. And I fear our boys have become quite adept at hearing things they are not meant to hear. As for Theon, he is not a bad lad, but he is nearly four years older than Robb and Jon, and more than aware he is Brandon’s hostage for all we call him a ward. I cannot entirely blame him for wishing to lord his knowledge over them occasionally.” He almost smiled at her, and she knew her face showed that she was less understanding when it came to young Greyjoy than he was. She had a strong defensive streak concerning her children and Ned had gently teased her about it more than once. “In any case,” he said. “It is Brandon’s concern to handle any questions Robb may have about young Rickard. It should not be yours.”

“Everything that touches Robb is my concern. You know that, Ned.”

“Aye,” he said softly. “But you can do nothing about this, Cat. So do not let it eat at you. We must simply see our way through it.”

“Can we?” she asked him earnestly, putting aside the troubling thoughts of her seven year old son attempting to comprehend what it meant for his lord father to bed women other than herself and bring home siblings like stray dogs. “Will Ryswell let go of his demand for legitimization?”

Ned shrugged. “It matters little. It shall not come to pass. Robert would never do such a thing unless Brandon and I pressed him for it quite strongly. He is not a fool, Cat, and your father’s continued support is important to him.”

“You are more important to him. He writes enough letters requesting your return to King’s Landing. The man loves you, Ned.”

“He does,” Ned agreed. “And whatever his faults, Robert is loyal to those he truly loves. I will make it very clear to him that this child of Barbrey Dustin’s is to remain a bastard. I promise you that, Cat.”

She reached up to touch his face, not caring that she was playing with fire, refusing to withdraw her hand even when the touch of her fingertips to his temple caused both of them to catch their breath. “Your promises mean more to me than any other words in all this world,” she whispered. “Gods forgive me, Ned, but I wish I could forsake every promise I’ve ever made if I could only promise myself to you.”

“Don’t, Cat.”

“I know.” She pulled her hand away. “I do not deserve you. I want to hate my husband for bringing his bastard here and threatening our children, but if I hate him then I must surely hate myself, for at least Brandon doesn’t claim his child is mine,” she said bitterly.

“Stop it. You will not speak of yourself like that.” Ned rose up suddenly, standing over her much as Brandon had earlier. His face and voice held every bit as much lordly command as he spoke to her and she was reminded forcefully that this man she loved and the man she had wed were brothers—both Starks of Winterfell and lords of the North, for all that only one held the title. 

“You would command me, my lord?” she asked, anger at herself and Brandon now extending somewhat to him.

His face softened immediately. “No,” he said. “You are not mine to command or even to beg,” he said sadly. “You are not mine to love, either, Catelyn, and yet I find I cannot stop doing that. So for the sake of the love I bear you, I will ask you to listen to me. Do not make Brandon out to be better than he is, my lady. I love my brother, but believe me when I say that he would pass this child off as yours if such a thing were possible. And he would do it with far less remorse than you have. This mess with the Ryswells and Brandon’s bastard is entirely of Brandon’s own making. It has nothing to do with us, Cat. Nothing we feel, nothing we’ve done, has caused any of this to come to pass. If any of it is a judgment from the gods, it is upon Brandon, not you. Do you understand me?”

She understood him. Whether or not she believed him was another matter. She nodded anyway. 

He looked at her and frowned, and she knew she hadn’t fooled him. “Cat,” he said. “The coming days will be difficult, I know, but you will get through them. We will get through them. I will not leave you to face this alone.”

“You are staying?” Relief flooded through her. She had feared that he would leave soon for King’s Landing and Robert now that Brandon was home and unlikely to disappear to Barrow Hall for extended periods of time ever again. “Thank the gods, Ned. I need you here so much. You are . . .”

“The man who never had a right to touch you and yet left you with a babe in your belly and rode away. Then stayed away from guilt and fear and weakness.” His words were harsh and more bitter than anything she’d heard him say in a long time.

“No,” she whispered. “You never did anything that . . .”

“Catelyn,” he interrupted her again, her name a hoarse plea on his lips. “I told you not to think Brandon better in his actions than he is. You must not think me better than I am, either. You cannot hold me blameless in our own deception. And do not think me selfless in my decision to remain at Winterfell now. Yes, I wish to make certain you are well and that Brandon’s current attempt to mollify the Ryswells is successful. But I cannot lie to myself. Nor will I lie to you.” His eyes never wavered from hers, and she felt as if his gaze pierced her very soul. “I don’t want to leave you. I left you once. I held you and loved you as I never should have—as I never will again—and somehow I found the strength to leave you. But having returned here, my love, I know that I will never be strong enough to walk away from you again. I cannot leave, Cat. I cannot leave you to your guilt and your fears or Brandon’s inconstancy or the Ryswell’s discourtesy. I cannot imagine more years spent without seeing your face. So even if it tears us both apart to be always so close and yet never close enough, I will stay. And we will be both hurt from it. Do not think me a better man than my brother. Neither of us is good enough for you.”

He stood before her, believing every word he said. _What a mess we’ve made of everything,_ she thought. _All three of us. And Ned would allow me no blame and I would allow none upon him._

Slowly, she stood up on shaky legs. Reflexively he reached out to hold her arms lest she fall. 

“Ned,” she said. “We have both been unfair to each other. I cannot absolve you any more than you can absolve me, and we shouldn’t try. I love you. I would like to say that I wish I didn’t, but I do not wish that. Whatever my marriage to Brandon has been—the good and the bad, I would never have known what it is to be loved had we not loved each other. I am not sorry for that, and I don’t think you are, either.”

“Gods forgive me, but I am not,” he said.

“I belong to Brandon,” she said, and he flinched at her words. “We both know I do. I belong to him as much as Winterfell does. My body. My honor. My children.” She swallowed. “All my children. They belong to him because I do. And you and I . . . we can never . . . we can never . . .”

“I know.”

“But I want you to stay anyway,” she said quickly. “Not because I am weak, although gods know I am. But because I am selfish. All of me belongs to Brandon save my heart. That belongs to you, and I would have you know it every day of our lives, even if the knowing brings us nothing but pain. You are not without faults, Eddard Stark. No man is. But you are a better man than your brother, and you are the man I choose to give the only part of me that is truly mine to give away.”

She didn’t realize she was crying again until he released one of her arms and raised his hand to her face to wipe away her tears.

“That is a gift more precious than any other I could receive, Cat,” he whispered. “And while I fear my own heart is a rather poor trade, it is yours. It has been for some time, and I will not take it back.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Out of all this mess, I am sorry that we’ve somehow stolen your life, Ned. Brandon and I—we’ve taken whatever life you might have had and pulled you into ours.”

“No,” he told her as Bran gave a cry from the cradle. “You are my life. You and the children. And I don’t mean only Arya. Or Jon. It may hurt like the devil to stay here, Cat, but whatever joy I do find is here. Because you are here.”

His head was bowed toward hers as he spoke, and she leaned forward to touch her forehead to his. “Together,” she whispered. “In our hearts, and as members of House Stark of Winterfell. The only ways we can be together.”

He nodded, and she felt his skin move against hers. Bran cried again more loudly, and Ned released her and stepped backward. “My nephew is hungry, my lady. I will leave you now, but I will see that the children all come to visit later if you would like.”

Ned had stepped back into his role as her dutiful goodbrother. But then what else could he do? They had said all they could possibly say. They loved each other, but speaking of it endlessly would bring them no peace. Brandon’s reckless behavior had put all of them in a precarious enough position without their adding to it. 

She walked to the chair where she’d been sitting earlier. “Could you get Bran for me, Ned?” she asked, keeping her voice as light as she could. “Maester Luwin will be most displeased if I lift him out of the cradle myself, and I must keep the good maester happy if I am ever to be released from prison.”

Ned nodded but didn’t quite smile at her jape. He picked up Bran who had begun squalling more or less continuously and handed him into her arms. “I will send one of your maids. Do not get out of this chair until someone comes.”

“I won’t,” she said. Then as he turned to leave, she added softly, “I promise.”

He turned back to look at her, a serious but tender expression on his face. “I promise, too,” he said, and then he left before she could reply or even truly consider the great many things that promise encompassed.

 _Brandon’s wife and Brandon’s brother, she thought. We shall work together to clean up Brandon’s mess and keep Brandon’s castle secure for Brandon’s children._

The soft, but surprisingly strong suckling of the babe at her breast served as a reminder of just how important that was. Ned had her heart and Brandon’s trust. She had Ned’s heart and Brandon’s name. Brandon had her duty and Ned’s devotion. 

_Family, Duty, Honor._ Catelyn held tightly to the words of her father’s house now, hoping they could help guide all three of them as they attempted to navigate House Stark through what she feared would prove to be rough waters.


End file.
